


Heroes in the Gloaming

by chantefable



Category: The Eagle of the Ninth - Rosemary Sutcliff, The Eagle | The Eagle of the Ninth (2011)
Genre: Alternate History, Alternate Universe - Future, Alternate Universe - Superheroes/Superpowers, Gen, M/M, Secret Identity, Vigilantism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-19
Updated: 2015-07-19
Packaged: 2018-03-22 14:46:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,515
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3732838
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/chantefable/pseuds/chantefable
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A superhero walks into a bath house…</p><p>Skirmishes, mysteries, and spa rituals in the grim metropolis known as Calleva City. In modern retro-futuristic Rome, Marcus and Esca are two comic book-style superheroes with secret identities and double lives. (Depending on the point of view, one of them is possibly a supervillain.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Heroes in the Gloaming

**Author's Note:**

  * For [beederiffic](https://archiveofourown.org/users/beederiffic/gifts).



> While liberally peppered with Roman-era details, references, and pastiche elements, this story does not actually aspire to consistency or direct correlation to Roman prototypes: as a modern-setting retro-futuristic punk Rome AU, it presupposes various developments of technology and society for it all to make any sense. And they're superheroes.  
> Written for the Eagle Reverse Big Bang 2012.

**Heroes in the Gloaming**

**DAWN**

**i**

It was the work of the Seal People, a pitiless gang that had been terrorising the city for a long while. Calleva was caught in a dark bacchanal of horror: murder, arson and robberies would await the citizens of Rome, night after night. Even as Marcus joined the efforts of those who had been trying to chase the Seal People down and apprehend them, he knew it was a futile attempt. The Seal People were swift and deadly, loping through the streets like wild ghosts, sparing no one and retreating to their haunts.

Marcus fancied he could hear the muffled screams of the matron in the raided villa, mixing with the cracking of the fire and the crumbling of the walls in a horrible symphony. But in reality, he was deaf and drained as he left the smoking ruins. 

A few policemen muttered hasty prayers to Jupiter as Marcus hurried away. Marcus knew that their blessings were not really meant for him: they were for the Eagle, Marcus' role – his title – his rank.

**ii**

The shape of an eagle in gold thread adorned Marcus' uniform, standing for Rome. The Eagles stood for Rome, preserving the idea of the Empire, its golden core that survived through millennia. There was glory in that, and honour, too, and a great deal of horror and grief. They hunted criminals, dissenters and trouble-stirrers, descending upon them like predatory birds hungry for a taste of liver. Marcus had seen the terror and misery brought upon by the raiders, by men like the Seal People and their spears. But these days, every time he charged into battle, he longed for his faded youth and army days, when honour and duty had been easy and obvious. Every time his _plasma-gladius_ sliced off an enemy's limb, Marcus cursed every magistrate and law-maker under the sun who had failed in thinking of a way to make Rome safe and secure for everyone.

(When Marcus had been summoned by Tribune Placidus before the city council and shown a table laden with syringes and gadgets, he hadn't known just how his life was about to change.

(But he had done it anyway.)

**iii**

The morning had not quite come, and yet Marcus would not allow himself to dawdle even a minute. He could make out the dull glimmer of sunlight spreading over the horizon. The black, sharp shapes of the skyscrapers were stark against warmly hued edge of the sky.

Quickly, Marcus crossed the narrow street to the Bull & Europe, a small inn where he always kept a room for his needs. He pulled off his sullied uniform and mask and laid them on the unmade, modest bed. He would pick them up later and wash them at home. Now, there was no time. Marcus hid his weapons, changed into a spare set of civilian clothes and left. A steady trickle of beggars and vendors was already beginning to fill the dim streets. 

No one spared Marcus more than a glance. No wonder; looking at him, one could hardly tell that only an hour ago he had been in the thick of a fiery fight, brandishing his _plasma-gladius_ as the police loosed shaft after shaft, hoping to hit the attackers with tranquilisers. Sweat and murder and hopelessness, that was the way Marcus spent his nights. 

All for the future of Calleva. All for the glory of Rome.

Haunted by the thought, Marcus made his way to the privately owned _balneae_ on the edge of the city. Fighting crime on the crowded, hostile urban terrain always made Marcus feel grimy and broken, so he made it a habit to frequent the baths to wash away the dirt (both real and imaginary, because sometimes he felt sullied by mere contact with the underbelly of Calleva, even if the scum of the day hadn't dragged him through the mud) and to soothe his sore body. The _balneae_ Marcus favoured were discreet and always open even at the crack of dawn. Perhaps they never closed, for the relatively remote and quiet district made them perfect for patrons who sought privacy for their relaxation. There, the patrons kept to themselves, and the attendants were nearly invisible until the point when one needed them. It was perfect.

With mindless speed that came from practice, Marcus undressed and attended the cold bath, then briefly lingered in the _tepidarium_ , grateful to be the only visitor at this hour. He paid no attention to the bright and slightly tacky paintings and mosaics of Neptune and frolicking nymphs that adorned the bathing areas. Instead, images of the skirmish that took place a few hours previously assaulted Marcus' mind. Clenching his teeth, Marcus rose from the bench and shuffled to the _caldarium_ , even though he knew that a plunge in a hot bath wouldn't be enough to clear his thoughts.

Marcus sighed and went back the _tepidarium_ , not bothering to towel himself off. Perhaps, if the cityscape of Calleva had been made of straight, logical lines and understandable angles, all in perfect order like in the golden days of the Empire, then it would have been easier to intercept the raiders. But it was not so; almost two thousand years later, there was a city on top of a city on top of a city, layers of lives and architecture seeping one into another, leaving Calleva a hopeless mess of intertwined tiny streets and wide roads, squat roundhouses and obelisk-like skyscrapers, majestic temples, palaces, and offices mixed with glum slums. These days, Calleva was a bustling, vicious megapolis, like Athens or Lutetia.

Often, Marcus couldn't help thinking that the Parcae had played a cruel trick on him when they turned him from a discharged centurion into one of the Eagles. Wired and uneasy, Marcus gestured that he needed to be attended to before lying down on a readied bench, confident that he would be noticed.

And indeed, a moment later, MacCunoval was there, massaging Marcus' back with slow, indifferent strokes. Marcus sighed softly against the cotton sheet he was splayed on and gave himself over to the masseur's attention, bearing the shivers and sharp spikes of pain that laced through his muscles as MacCunoval's hands kneaded his flesh. He knew that soon the pain would drain from him, leaving bone-deep tiredness in its wake. For now, though, Marcus' body was still abuzz with adrenaline and frustration, uncomfortable reminders of the night's altercation wedged deeply under his skin.

Frankly, MacCunoval's sharp prods were probably the real reason Marcus had come to like these baths above all others. He was never particularly gentle, yet somehow that kind of treatment was exactly what Marcus' body needed after a fight. Marcus always felt refreshed after MacCunoval's massage: it was rough, but not careless, every stroke filled with purpose that Marcus couldn't quite grasp. He could, however, appreciate the results: thanks to MacCunoval's expert ministrations, Marcus' leg hardly bothered him these days.

Before he discovered the remote _balneae_ , Marcus had suffered severe pains. The leg wouldn't heal properly; Marcus had had two surgeries and the strain of his night vigils wasn't making things any easier. Luckily, a chase had brought him to this part of the city one day, and something about these particular stone walls had seemed welcoming. But since then, Marcus had been unable to pinpoint what it had been, exactly. In fact, for all their traditional layout and functionality, the baths had a subtly un-Roman air about them: the _apodyterium_ was full of Celtic designs, all the cloths, sheets and towels were in traditional local patterns, and the employees were all of the tribes, as far as Marcus could tell. Still, Marcus didn't care one whit about it, for ever since the first visit, he would have traded all the luxury of the fashionable baths in the city centre for a good half-hour of MacCunoval pummelling his shoulders.

Relishing the feel of MacCunoval's oiled hands on his lower back, Marcus thought back to his own fate. 

Being an Eagle was no easy task. There was one in every large city of the New Empire – a vigilante bound to uphold the principles of the Roman order by eradicating active threats. The institution dated back to Emperor Lucius Severus; it had survived through the tumultuous years of the Ninth Republic and its technological revolutions, and was now carefully preserved under the New Empire for its symbolic value. Many an orator had argued that the merits of the Eagles were indisputable: indeed, few things improved the morale of the police and made the citizens sleep better than a super soldier patrolling the stinking night streets, armed with high-tech weapons and as high on Apollo's drink (and other strength- and mind-boosting cocktails) as a Delphi oracle. 

An Eagle in the city meant that Rome was watching.

What they never warned the recruits about was that an Eagle's quest was never done. A perfect Rome was the stuff of dreams.

The nightly vigils were very real, however, as attested by the bruises and, occasionally, wounds that littered Marcus' body in the morning despite his fighting skills, his _turbo-caligae_ and his experience with weapons. This was where MacCunoval proved to be invaluable – and as soon as that thought crossed his mind, Marcus felt an impatient slap on his thigh and, with a groan, turned to lie on his back at MacCunoval's urging. 

It was no exaggeration to say that MacCunoval kept him whole.

And mornings like this, with his body aching after another fight with the Hound, or the Red Vixen, or some of the Seal People, all Marcus really wanted was to have MacCunoval push him even further: to have those clever, blunt fingers in his mouth, or breaching him, or toying with his cock. To have MacCunoval issuing commands. 

But those were distinctly un-Roman thoughts, and Marcus kept them to himself. 

MacCunoval was a perfect (if surly) professional, and his hands never strayed, no matter how much Marcus wanted them to.

**DUSK**

**i**

With squall after squall, the winds came shrieking.

Armed with his trusted dagger and dressed in the attire of the Hound, Esca made his way to the heart of the city, where the rich and powerful preferred to rot idle and babble about their precious system as they leeched the blood, faith and life out of the tribes people.

Romans. If they could have their own way, they would sweep away with them the whole world, razing it to the ground with violence and arrogance.

But, Lug and Agrona willing, the Seal People, the Hound and other wild sons of the tribes – sons of anarchy – would roam this city like a hurricane, giving the true spirit of the land freedom once Roman Calleva was reduced to ruins.

Night fell, blackness spreading swiftly, like dark wine spilling over. Esca trusted this to be a sign of Cocidius' favour: the Hound was going to sink its teeth in the Bank of Calleva tonight, and breaking in was going to require stealth, strength, and speed.

Every attack counted, and whenever Esca prepared to scale the smooth walls and attack filthy Roman financiers where it hurt them most, he relied in equal measure on his cunning and on the secret, ancient rites of Brigantes that gave him superhuman power. 

By Cocidius, no opponent would defeat him.

Relishing the magic thrum in his veins, Esca felt ready to strike.

**ii**

The Eagle was their most hated foe, thwarting the rebels' plans when the police was too slow or too coy to interfere.

The Eagle had swept down on the Hound countless times. Theirs was a battle of wills, a battle of faiths: they clashed as if they truly were the envoys of their gods, unscrupulous and unrepentant, but underneath their armour, both were clearly men, driven by purpose and something akin to obsession.

Men could be weak. Men could be noble. Esca was not sure what could explain his bizarre history with Calleva's vigilante.

Rage and loathing fuelled Esca, and yet he had not delivered the killing blow when he had had the chance.

The Eagle was Rome, and yet when the police had captured Esca after the riots in the Arena District, he had shouted _life_. Esca had been spared; they had forgotten to rip off his mask in the commotion, and Esca had escaped.

**iii**

The steel and stone buildings reverberated with the force of the storm. Esca was getting out of the Bank when the Eagle arrived. A heated fight ensued; Esca promptly managed to destroy the Eagle's _plasma-gladius_ with a clear strike to the control panel at the base of the blade-projector, but even unarmed, the Eagle was dangerous and would not back down.

The thunder cracked and for a second, Esca's confidence wavered. Was Jupiter actually steering this Eagle's hand now? Was the god smiting fury in the man's fists? But then a lightning flared, and Esca struck home with a mighty yell. Rage swept through him, and his dagger knew no mercy; but the Eagle parried every jab and thrust. The chilling blasts of wind wrecked the street as they charged at each other.

The Eagle did not yield, and his armour did not yield. Esca's mind was ablaze, a jumble of thoughts: _strike him down – pin him down – make him yield – make him submit._

Those were dark, sinful thoughts. Thoughts that had been haunting Esca since his first altercation with the Eagle. Esca hated the man and everything he stood for, and yet the Eagle never failed to rouse something primal within Esca – with a roll of his shoulders, with a strike of his _plasma-gladius_. Esca wanted to come crashing upon this man like a tidal wave.

When the next flare blinded him, the Eagle's shove made Esca drop his dagger. Enraged, he pounced and twisted, grasping the Eagle's wrists in a vice-like grip until the other man's knees buckled and Esca felt his limbs give way. As always, the Eagle's face was hidden by the cowl, but his eyes burned bright, full of hunger and fury.

(Esca felt the deadly poison of desire streaming into him. He wanted this man pliant under him, he wanted to plough into his body as the wind howled.)

Romans. Their prisons were well barred, and their secrets were well sealed. The former were weeping bitterly for Esca, eager to drag him in their damp, dark cellars. The latter were safely hidden behind closed doors, in temples and in offices. But in that moment, one of those precious secrets was kneeling at Esca's feet, and Esca yearned to have it bared to the chill of the windy night. He wanted to see the Eagle's face, flushed red and sweaty, level with Esca's crotch.

He wanted to know that man, and own him.

The Eagle struggled with more force, and Esca's passion crested. They grappled on the cold, grazing asphalt, wrestling like the Greeks, and as the Eagle's pants grew harsh and shallow, Esca could have sworn that the man under him was thinking the same things.

Suddenly, the muddled skies were pierced by signal lights. The commotion in the neighbourhood had finally attracted the attention of the bloody police force, steadily protecting the welfare of the posh matrons and vain tribunes of Calleva.

The shrill song of the police sirens assaulted Esca's ears. But that wasn't what had left him dumbstruck. Neither was it the wind slapping his face, nor the roll of thunder, nor any other sign of divine wrath.

No. Between one punch and the next, Esca knew with utmost clarity that, in his heart, he did not want to _take_ – he wanted the Roman to _give_. And just as Esca bent closer to take one bite of that thick neck hidden by tech-fibre, he caught the sharp, spicy scent he would have recognised anywhere.

It was Esca's own mix of oils he was using to rub down his clients at the _balneae_.

And so, Esca pulled back and sat on his heels, landing a blow in the Eagle's jaw. Then he ran, leaving the Eagle sprawled on the wet sidewalk.

Esca fled the scene, but he couldn't flee the truth that had stabbed his mind and realigned his entire world.

**GLOAMING**

**i**

Marcus wanted to stay at home and nurse his wounded pride. The previous night was even worse than that time when he had been chasing the Red Vixen across the city, jumping from rooftop to rooftop. At least she was rumoured to be an actual goddess incarnate – even Tribune Placidus was wary of offering a reward for her head. Marcus stared morosely into the fireplace, where the logs were burning and sending a steady stream of bright orange sparks rising upwards.

The Hound had beaten him yesterday, ruthlessly focussed and exploring every weakness of Marcus' body – a cruel parody of MacCunoval's rough but healing touch. Shame burned through Marcus as he remembered his destroyed _plasma-gladius_. Luckily, he had managed to gather his wits before the arrival of the police. They hadn't seen Marcus lying unconscious and helpless, but that didn't change the way Marcus had felt, overcome by the Hound's brute force and cunning: vanquished. Owned. 

Marcus blushed at how easy those feelings had suffused him: what he had been barely daring to long for from MacCunoval – shy and inexperienced, and only in the privacy of his own mind – he had promptly and gleefully accepted from the man who had repeatedly tried to kill him – and to kill Rome itself.

Marcus wasn't sure what worried him more: that he had felt this way, that the Hound had probably sensed it, or that perhaps he hadn't...

Marcus wanted to stay at home, but common sense won. He knew he needed to be in MacCunoval's hands, or the strain on his leg – and other body parts – would prove to be too much. With the city suspended between light and darkness, Marcus made his way to the _balneae_.

**ii**

Esca knew that body, every scar and muscle. Even so, he couldn't believe that this man, dull and docile as a baby bull, was the Eagle. Now, he saw all those sores and cramps with different eyes; he recognised the bruises he had given Marcus Aquila the night before. He wondered who were the ones who had mapped Aquila's body before him, and was strangely jealous.

Esca's hands followed the trail of fresh bruises, working in the soothing salve and loosening the kinks in those tense muscles. Aquila – Marcus – the Eagle occasionally shivered under Esca's touch, subtly straining to meet Esca's hands. Esca's own body was already half-healed, the energy of the rite pounding in his blood. But Marcus was different.

Afterwards, Marcus was always coming here. To Esca.

It made heat pool in the pit of Esca's stomach. Something new and exciting made his heart clench: on the one hand, it echoed the dark desire that had been poisoning him before, but on the other hand, it was a strange impulse to nurture and to care. This heady feeling tinged Esca's memories of all the past times he had serviced Marcus in the _balneae_ with deep longing. Had it always been there?

Esca's hands were slippery with the massage oil. He tugged at Marcus' wrist, impatient, eager to have Marcus on his back and see the magnificent bruise blooming on his jaw. Marcus rolled over, easily obedient, as always, and –

Marcus' eyes flashed with disbelief.

The two of them were frozen in stony silence, staring each other down.

The bruises on Marcus' wrists were the exact shape and size of Esca's hands.

**iii**

Awareness slowly trickled in. Marcus knew that they were alone at the baths at this hour. The other attendants were virtually invisible (and who was to say they hadn't been MacCunoval's accomplices all along?). As always, the steam, the scent of the oils and MacCunoval's close presence made it difficult to think clearly, but this, Marcus understood.

Battered inside and out, he was at the mercy of MacCunoval. MacCunoval, who was the Hound.

Marcus realised he was staring wild-eyed at MacCunoval's hand wrapped around his wrist (the sure grip anchoring him now where it had overwhelmed him the day before). He recognised the touch. Today, MacCunoval's strokes matched his blows and suddenly, everything made sense.

Everything but why MacCunoval was cupping Marcus' purpling, bruised jaw instead of sinking his famous ritual dagger between Marcus' ribs. Having those slick fingers on his face sent a fresh pulse of desire through Marcus, and he couldn't help the moan that escaped his mouth. It made MacCunoval's eyes go dark and wide, his face alive with emotion. Or maybe it was Marcus whispering his name – his names.

Marcus had wanted MacCunoval before, but now, everything was better. More dangerous. Absolutely impossible. What a crazy trick the Parcae were playing on him. Daring, Marcus let his hands hang limply at his sides and arched his back, baring his neck to the Hound's fierce gaze.

Marcus' heart made a dull, thumping noise as MacCunoval's lips descended onto his.

**Author's Note:**

> The Emperor Lucius Severus is completely made up and his reign should correspond to the late Middle Ages or whatever you like. His Harry Potter-style name is a bit of a misplaced witticism.


End file.
